Page 23 of Lady and the Hitman
Just … noticed.
Everything.
“How long is the flight?” I asked, desperate for anything to cut the tension.
“Ninety-five minutes.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“Don’t worry, Lady,” he said softly. “I won’t touch you until you ask.”
That shouldn’t have made me wet.
But it did.
I took another sip and stared out the window.
The tarmac rolled beneath us as we taxied. The engines rumbled. Then, lift—smooth and strong. The sky swallowed us in one fluid motion.
I should have been nervous. I wasn’t.
Not about the flight.
Only about what I was becoming.
“So,” I said, struggling for control. “Do I get to know your name?”
He looked at me for a long moment, eyes unreadable.
Then: “Maybe. Eventually.”
I swallowed. “And do you know mine?”
His lips lifted—barely. “I know enough.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It’s supposed to remind you,” he said, gaze sweeping over me, slow and possessive, “that this—” his voice dropped lower, “—is not about equality.”
My breath caught.
“You chose that,” he added. “When you submitted.”
The word sent a jolt down my spine.
I didn’t argue.
Because he was right.
We lapsed into silence again.
He studied me with quiet interest. Like he was trying to figure out how far I could bend before I broke. Like hewanted to break me—but gently. With care. Like a craftsman disassembling a rare instrument just to understand how it sang.
I crossed one leg over the other.
His eyes followed the movement. Slow. Unhurried.
“I read what you wrote,” he said after a while, his voice low and steady.
